


no fruit on the empty tree

by parkadescandal



Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, M/M, Mild S&M, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, tongue in cheek but like. in more than one sense, when u can't articulate ur really intense feelings so u fuck about it instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23668042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkadescandal/pseuds/parkadescandal
Summary: You can't shake the feeling that whichever one of you talks first loses.You don't think you can stand to lose.
Relationships: Riku/Sora (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	no fruit on the empty tree

**Author's Note:**

> _Please see end notes for elaboration on content warnings._
> 
> felt a little bit of trepidation at first bc this is p different from my normal fare, but i'm re-claiming w the precaution that it's not the comfiest narrative. ty for reading 💜

There were closer calls, though not many.

If you had to keep going, you would—you always did. The both of you would; you've never really factored in fatigue. You're more in tune now than you ever were, even as kids, totally inseparable. But now you both sit in the quiet of your room, safely home with nowhere for either you or the adrenaline to go. You both come down from it, exhausted, staring off into space in silent camaraderie. Even if you could muster words, you wouldn't need them.

In the years since it all began you never found the cure for fear—not for yourself, but for _him_ —knowing every time you reach out to push him out of harm's way you'll wonder if this were finally the time it would be too late. There isn't any security in knowing you'd weathered worse. You know that the universe is fickle, and just petty enough to snuff out your light before your own candle stops flickering. You can handle just about any terror with grace and aplomb, so long as it isn't trying to steal the very heart from your chest. Not in any way it really counts. You're worried about what you'll do when something takes him away from you. You're sure that you'd no longer be the person he thinks you are, because that's when you'd truly be heartless.

You pass a few more moments in silence before you're wrapped in an embrace—you blink, and when you open your eyes again he's there. You never would have asked for it, but it's exactly what you needed; intuition connects you together again. For once, you don't overthink it when you circle your arms around him in return—after all, you make a complete set.

You post yourself like an hourglass, holding a sturdy base for the falling sand that settles and slides on top of you. You allow yourself to be sifted about to catch that new layer, to let each grain reconvene in the place where it belongs. He settles in close and fills in all your negative space with his body—cheek to chin and chin to chest, the rest of him pressed against the rest of you with few inches left in the differential. You fit together in a way that's exceedingly natural. You never could have asked for it, but it's exactly what you wanted. There's not much that could make you let go.

You let him set a rhythm, each sturdy breath vibrating around you. You fall in line to the hand clutching dearly at your sleeve and the other placed over your heart like a stethoscope, cupped around it to catch each of your heartbeats and hold it there for himself. Transparent as always, you think— _yeah. I'm happy you're alive too_.

You breathe deep, and try to keep your heart from going erratic as a result of the same touch that measures it—the touch that calms your worry, but kindles your imagination. You've always been close. You won't make this weird. You can't let him know that the way you want him is like hunger. You can't risk it—you can keep that pit in your stomach and survive: you already know that from years upon years of experience. But you won't make it a day if you can't drink him in, and water's already so scarce.

You're glad you have practice tackling gargantuan tasks, especially when it comes to navigating the hells of your own making. You've got your fallen paradise right here, tempered in turns by the agony and the elation of having him so close, at falling flush together with a thousand points of contact. You feel every one of those steady breaths warm and humid against your throat, and you think you can handle any hell heat so long as it sends cold shivers through your nervous system like this does. Your very foundation will always find more room to compact all these grains of sand—you spread yourself thinner and thinner to let each of them fall and allow him to take his place. You could take it to a molecular level if necessary.

Maybe you'll let go and push the both of you forward into reality again, without causing harm to either of your psyches. Perhaps you should. But there's something about this little pocket of time, your hourglass, that allows you to run your timer just a little bit longer. Maybe neither of you need any more comfort than this, but with the planets so aligned you think maybe you can just stay and _want_ it. You close your eyes for the moment, so you can hold on to it for later.

You barely escaped with your life today, so you know you'll both be forgiven this little display as a result of extenuating circumstance. You can make your excuses later.

You breathe as deeply as you'll allow for fear you'll rattle him right off your chest, then prepare to return to the ground. No sooner than you make the decision he sighs, a satisfied sound, and shifts himself impossibly closer, then wraps himself impossibly tighter. You're already hoping against hope that he doesn't feel your pulse, which you are already sure is pouring loudly from every pore at rapid-fire pace, but he chooses then to skim his thumb low on your side, letting it catch every so often on the fabric on the front of your shirt as he lightly rests his palm at your hip. Years ago, for reasons unknown to you, he gave up wearing gloves altogether, and now you get the fruits of calluses sustained. He turns his head so the tip of his nose presses your shoulder, and you feel him breathe, open-mouthed, then rest his lips against your collarbone.

The hand he's not using to feather touches across your side rests low on your back, at that tiny sliver where your skin is exposed, then crawls up the back of your shirt to rest firmly at your shoulder-blade. You tense, involuntarily, and try to loosen up—you don't want to make him feel like he's doing something wrong—but your breath shallows all the same, worse when he presses his thumb into the space where your leg meets your waist and continues to rub the tiniest circular motions there beneath your belt. You know you won't be able to pass any of it off as innocent if he moves much farther, but for now he's unconcerned, sliding his hand against the muscle of your thigh.

You sense cold prickles dotted from top to bottom, and you are entirely unable to control your heartbeat now, which he undoubtedly feels when he presses what is unmistakably a kiss to the hollow of your throat. You can't move. He moves his way up your neck; you manage to hold your chin up high, but he only takes advantage of the opportunity and presses another kiss to your adam's apple, then with feather light precision cranes up to the space at your jaw underneath your ear. You look at him with your eyes half closed, every sound muffled by the rush of blood in your ears. He hesitates, and looks up at you from under his lashes, eyes slowly fluttering open and closed. You feel every possibility align itself in your chest, bright and terrifying, and without really deciding to you let your mouth fall open by a degree. He accepts your invitation.

One motion, barely a nod, brings his mouth to yours, then you are kissing one another with a suddenness that feels like you're picking up where you left off in some other worldline. Instant reciprocity, push and pull plus give and take, fallen and sunken into the motion from shallow to deep. You realize, vaguely faint, that you are not the hungry one after all.

He touches you everywhere, drags hands to your hair and your face and your shoulders and your chest and all the way down the curve of your back and then some, and you absorb it slowly, like you can extend this indefinitely. You try to take things a little more slowly, one at a time, and in between kisses move your hands to settle at the curve of his hips the same way you've imagined doing since the very first time desire curved around your brain at all. He sighs appreciatively into your mouth and then bites your lip, and when you short-circuit for a moment he moves on to put teeth and tongue elsewhere on your body.

You spend another little while exploring one another with increasing boldness—your hands across his chest, his fingers in your hair, your lips around his knuckles, his tongue beside your navel.

He finally shucks off your shirt from the bottom, so you slide your hands under his, and when the both of you are bare-chested he sits up on his knees to bracket you between his legs. When he presses close you feel that he's hard, possibly even more than you are. You breathe in sharply through your teeth and shift your hips to accommodate him when he pushes his erection at your belly. He pushes your chest to make you lean back by a few degrees and rubs against you, up and down, and you lift your hips just slightly as a response and elicit a gasp from him. He slowly ends this latest kiss to reach down and start sliding off the rest of your kit, and you both shuffle around for a moment while he loses his in turn. Layer removal achieved, he resumes his seat between your legs and nips at your lip for a moment before shoving his tongue in your mouth, then picks up a grinding rhythm almost effective enough on its own to put you over the edge. He thrusts, once, twice, moaning into your mouth, then shifts down to maneuver you inside of him.

You hiccup an inhale and shake your head gently, lowering your hips, but he follows the movement—you both gasp this time. You swallow, then reach underneath to spread him open. You put your hand in your mouth and slowly slide a wet finger inside him—he inhales sharply, but it turns into a sigh, so you move forward one by one; you freeze every time he whimpers in pain, but he squeezes your thigh to encourage you each time.

He quickly grows bored practicing on your fingers and convinces you to push through as planned. You lift your hips; he digs his nails into your back and cries out with your every thrust, then lets his head fall back with a stuttering gasp. With a soft noise of your own you push up once more into orgasm and out of your mind—stars dot your eyes as you come down.

You're still half hard inside him. He wraps his legs around your back and starts to kiss you again, and again, falling into a back and forth rocking motion atop you, slick—you made it easier for him this time. You hold onto his shoulders as he brings himself off, rubbing hard and insistent at your stomach until he spurts on your chest, continuing his bouncing movement until you choke back a shout and return the favor by filling him again. You fall to your back—you'd say you didn't know you had it in you, but it's not. At least not anymore. Sharing is caring, they say, though you're pretty sure that's not what they meant by " _sharing the load_."

You look to the ceiling to take a breather and take stock. A lifelong fantasy, fulfilled doubly as well as you'd ever imagined: you've just come inside your best friend, twice consecutively. You held him as he humped you then wiped his emission off your pectorals like some kind of fever dream. He's still seated on your crotch, chest heaving, covering his eyes with the back of his hand.

You cover your face with your hands, then grimace. You pass them over your sheets and try again, this time wiping ejaculate out of your eye before continuing your existential crisis.

He finally climbs off of you with a slight squelching noise and stumbles when he puts feet to the floor. You reach for him belatedly, but he slaps the bed to keep balanced, looking at you like he's caught in headlights. You look back, blinking. He takes a step and stumbles again, nearly landing rear first on the floor, which you're sure will only exacerbate the problem causing his weak knees. Equilibrium regained, he looks to the floor like it will provide him with solutions. It can only offer his pants, which he gathers as consolation. You sit up and watch him dress, but he doesn't look at you again until he's done.

He's wearing the same expression he does when he miscalculates the landing on a free fall. He turns to stagger out the door.

You shut your eyes. You wish you hadn't watched him leave, because you just upped the ante on your earlier fantasy times three.

More than that, though, you wish you hadn't let him in. You now know how his breath picks up when you kiss him, and you'll think with a heavy heart about doing it again under the sunrise of every skyline you see for the rest of your natural life.

On your own the next morning the only thing you can muster is " _Great,_ " but you can't find it in yourself to add any vitriol—simply resignation.

You think it's not terribly far beyond the realm of things you might dream up yourself, since dreams got so much less intangible when you pulled your consciousnesses together to play dream-catcher. It's entirely possible you are conflating one with reality. At least, or so you manage to convince yourself until the mid-afternoon, when all the little tell-tales begin to peek their way in, like the deep but pleasant burn at your thighs caused by exercising them in a different capacity. There's the sting of chafed skin when your chest rubs against your shirt; the perfect half-moon of bruises cratered into your shoulder in the shape of teeth. You feel a dash of pain, or nausea, or guilt, but what accompanies and overshadows it all is desire: _want_ , plain and simple. Things proceed as normal, and so must you—even when the pleasant soreness in each step calls to mind the act of bracing him between your legs, pressing up inside him as he rides you, gasping at the arc of each thrust.

Back in reality he doesn't even enter your radius, nonetheless touching distance, so you continue as before—quiet, alone, biting at your fist to stifle yourself when you cry out, because you don't dare even think his name, scared it will slide forth in a sigh if you so much as allow the thought: you don't want to get in the habit. You wouldn't be able to say it even if you got him in front of you again.

You look away for just one moment—the wrong one; you're felled by some projectile that tears at your leg from the space behind you were sure you'd cleared. You collapse to your knees with an abbreviated grunt, immobilized. Your first thought is that it's not normally quite so sudden, the feeling of near-dying. Even in total whiteout, mired within an electric numbness that pounces right past pain, you're not entirely sure that _near-dying_ is exactly what this is… but the expression on his face seems to indicate otherwise. You watch him tear his eyes and then himself away to speed past you into that same danger. You exhale in relief, sinking deeper into the dirt as you flail to clutch desperately at the afflicted leg to measure what kind of magic burned so searing; poison, likely, if the feeling of ice at the tips of your fingers is the start of the shock shut-down you suspect it is. You'll live. That is, if you calm the tremors long enough to seize back your spells before the spell seizes you.

You close your eyes. You're overcome by an ironic laugh, only strong enough to blow up a puff of dust where your cheek brushes the ground.

The sound of his shoes sliding on the rock precedes him, and when your eyes flutter back open you see him slide over, kicking up all the dirt as he goes before he drops to his knees. Thankfully one of you is wearing a straight head. He pulls you up to a sitting position, then throws one leg behind you as if his knee alone could keep you afloat—evidently he took one look at you and decided you would wobble over without his help, and you might've argued about it if you weren't so dizzy. Uncannily methodical, he devises a magical solution to serve as tourniquet, then applies with deft hands a healing spell to settle over you as he reaches in your pocket to snatch the first crystal bottle of liquid cure magic on which he can securely lay fingers. When he cracks open the top of it you see scratches clawed up his wrist, rendered just now if the remnants of heartless _goo_ that leave a steaming darkness curling around his arm are any indication. How careless. You wonder if you can't convince him to start wearing his gauntlets again.

"Open your mouth," he commands. You blink at him, feeling a little fuzzy around the edges. It's not like you _outgrow_ them—there's probably still a set of his gloves hanging around; you're sure you've even got a pair or two yourself to lend. " _Riku._ "

You don't comply fast enough for him. He yanks back your head with one hand, and with the potion still fisted in the other he pulls your mouth open with his thumb. When he's satisfied you won't tilt back onto dusty terrain, the hand supporting your head darts back to ease open your jaw, then he tips the potion down your throat.

Clarity descends. You no longer feel like you're contracting frostbite on a dry desert world.

"Thanks," you tell him, but he only stands up and walks away, his tread kicking up a little more dust than is probably warranted. You jog up to meet him, but it's already a lost cause. He only spares you one more look—one of true and profound anger.

"Maybe stop trying to get yourself killed," he says, acerbic to the teeth. When he marches forward you let him go.

Ten minutes later he has you pushed up against the bay door inside the Gummi, a hand fisted in the now grimy white of your shirt and his groin pressed persistently against your belly. You thought he already took his vengeance on the base and stupid creature what got slaughtered on the field, but it seems he's not done: he pulls the rest of it from you when kisses you, exacts payment by splitting your lip with his teeth. Now he tastes a little like blood on top of the lingering bitterness of the potion. He throws his arms as high up as they'll reach around your neck and straddles your leg, sliding up and down with urgency to apply friction while he gasps into your mouth and pushes your tongue away with his.

You feel it from an outside perspective for a moment, floating… reflecting on the steps to get here makes it seem dreamy and bizarre. You touch your hands against his waist just enough to feel where he stretches taut from craning up to meet you, and you feel him drop in increments when he slips down to drag his lips to your chest and mouth around the muscle there before moving to nip at sensitive skin. His hands slide down to join, taking care to feel out the planes of your body, and he shifts inside your arm to move one hand to your backside and the other to cup your groin over your pants. Your hips buck in response; he presses once more and you cut off a breathy moan as he fumbles at your belt buckle with both hands before he sinks to his knees in sheets and waves.

You feel him hesitate for a moment, his breath on your bare skin, and you feel a wave of guilt about your arousal. You reach to put a hand on his head to stay him: _no, you don't need—_ but you lose the thought where it stands when he takes you into his mouth. You breathe through the whimper forming at the base of your throat and hear him gag as he takes you deeper.

He has the bottom of your jacket crumpled up in one hand and digs his nails into your thigh with the other. You cry out and reach down again to steer him away, but he stays put, struggling past the limits of his gag reflex. He skirts a hand under your groin and squeezes—you thrust your hips forward again. He's doing his level best, emitting a small and desperate keen before he chokes on you again. You are mortified to find out that it's the thing that sets you off. You are already grappling with embarrassment as you come hard and hot down his throat, but you feel true shame when he valiantly swallows every bit of it down with hiccup huff groans of pleasure.

Weak-kneed, you slump against the door, sliding out of his mouth—or perhaps he pulls you from his throat; regardless, there's a noise of sticky wetness, sloppy, and you're about to give way and collapse to the floor of your own accord when he tugs you by the jacket again to force you seated. He crowds you, pulling your legs apart then pressing his groin to the inside of your thigh. You feel damp fabric against your bare skin. He puts his hands at your collarbone, pressing you against the wall hard enough to bruise, and supports himself as he thrusts against you. You watch as he goes slack-jawed and drools a small stream of your come from his mouth. A nauseated lust half-heartedly pools at your lower belly. After only a few strokes you feel his relief drip down to mingle with the sweat you leave cooling on the floor.

He catches his breath for a moment and looks toward you as you pant alongside him. He dives in for a second as if to kiss you, but thinks better of it, self-conscious. He averts his gaze when he brings the back of his hand to his mouth to wipe your slickness off his lips.

You watch from the floor, still legless, as he rises to stand, hands shaking as he unclasps his own belt. He looks to the floor as he slides it from the loops.

"I can have us back before schedule if we leave soon," he says, leaving you on the floor as he turns to go change. When you finally stand a moment later he's already marching his way past you toward the cockpit.

You can't shake the feeling that whichever one of you talks first loses.

You don't think you can stand to lose.

They need for someone to enter the realm of darkness who can clear out a growing nest of darkness as quickly as possible.

"I'll go," you hear yourself say, and no one who turns to look at you is surprised. You are, after all, the best candidate, but they still make the token protests. When they ask you if you are sure you say, "Of course I am." When they ask you who you're going to bring you say, "No one." No one can really argue.

He's quiet through all of it, seated as usual beside you; you feel him tense. You catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye and recognize instantly a helpless anger seeded there in the white-knuckled hand balled up at his side—your signature move. You regret being the one to cause it.

He does not speak to you as you prepare to leave.

When you return—battered, bruised, yet more blood on your hands—fifteen days have passed in the realm of light. He demonstrates a surprising lack of regard for your injuries when he yanks you by the wrist all the way to your room, other hand still clenched like he never let it go. You think ironically that perhaps your roles have changed: your right hand swings lamely by your side.

If his change in demeanor isn't a clue he's still angry, the speed at which he has you on your back makes it abundantly clear a fortnight has done nothing to cool him off. He undresses carelessly, pinning you between his knees as if you'll go anywhere, then descends on your own buttons and buckles. He is rough with you—though he could stand to be rougher. He is insubordinate—though you never once claimed that you called any of the shots in this arrangement.

He covers you bodily, your chests touching, and reaches up to hold your forearms down while he screws you out of your senses. Not like you need them anyway. You convey as much of your ecstasy as possible through every gasp, breathing the build-up in his ear with pitch perfect intonation to signify you're past the breaking point. You'll allow him to decide how long to keep you there before letting you come. You are patient through each long kiss, through each knife stab bite, through each of his insistent moans as he pleasures himself with your mouth. You are even patient when you swallow him down afterward.

By the time he takes you in his hand you have been hard for so long that you are sore, and after another eternity he pushes his thumb to the tip and finally nods his assent to receive your load all over his face.

When he is through with you you inspect yourself in the mirror. It's hard to tell between the places he marked you and the places where you ran into trouble on your little business trip. You find that you don't care. It makes no difference to you.

When they ask you to go again you do.

You think about it all the time. You want to tell him that you love him. That he is your primary purpose in life, your reason for persevering. That it would be neither difficult nor a burden to exist solely on his behalf. You want to repeat it so much that the both of you drown in the sound of it when it overflows every room you stand in and allows neither of you a choice but to yield.

But you can't, because you'll lose. So you compromise by making him come instead.

You like when you can give it to him as many consecutive times as possible. Like when you come back to stand plaintively at his door for a moment before he drags you in. You pull an orgasm from him just by being inside him, then two more with your mouth, then another as he holds your wrist to keep you touching him as he leans against you, wrecked and sobbing onto your shoulder—then when he sees that you still haven't finished he directs you to slide between his legs until you've had enough. Before you can move he grabs you by the arm and pulls you close to bring your mouths together, consumptive. He takes from you in bouts of singular kisses that he breaks and starts anew in a continuous chain, but when he pulls you back for yet another you stand, and then you leave him—it's only fair.

Too late, regardless—you are already in too deep.

You're not sure what it is you'll forfeit.

You just know whatever it turns out to be is something you can't afford to lose.

You get close once.

The both of you are out on the field, just a normal assignment in the realm of darkness. You're not paying attention because you are too busy watching him. He sees it first and you hear it right afterward—a conflagration building behind from a creature you can't destroy, namely because it'll do so itself no sooner than it wipes the both of you out.

You should have clocked it first. You turn to cover him but he doesn't like that answer; he tugs you by the collar so hard you think he might break your neck, then pulls you down low by the arm before breaking into a run, scrambling away with less than seconds to spare. He drags you with him, not dropping his hand until he's sure you didn't take this opportunity to die like you're apparently so desperate to, and you run clear across the distance: thoroughly singed but impossibly alive, impossibly, impossibly alive. When you've traversed at least twice as much distance as you need to get to safety you both stop and turn to one another, panting. You start to laugh. He holds it back, but can't stop a nervous chuckle. You look at one another to assess the damage but you meet eyes and don't look away.

Instantly you fall into one another, nothing short of passionate when you kiss, mindlessly reaching out to touch as much of each other as you can put beneath your hands. The both of you stagger toward one of the stone protrusions that line the outskirts of the land by the thousands, and you hit it back first and allow yourself to be pressed up against it. You find it unfortunate that there is still so much space separating you, but it seems he has the same thought—with his tongue still in your mouth he reaches his arms around your neck and takes the shortest running leap in history into your arms. You hold onto him by the thighs as he straddles your waist and wraps his legs around you. You feel out behind you to find a dip in the stone to throne him on, and with him still latched on you stumble for a moment before you do so. Like always, you place him on a pedestal—this one just so happens to be outside your imagination.

You hold him up there in your arms, ready to dive in, to reach up, to take, and the forbidden nearly tumbles out of you and ruins everything. " _Sora_ ," you nearly say, " _Sora, Sora, Sora, everything I have to give is yours_ ," but in your split-second hesitation you look at one another, him down at you and you up at him, and you both realize that the moment came dangerously close to sweeping you away.

"Let's go," you say instead.

You summon your wits back about you and extend a hand to help him down, and you convince yourself that stopping was the right thing to do, even when he lets go of your hand and pulls your fingers apart slowly enough that they brush together again before they separate.

What if you wrote it down? Perhaps circumventing the unspoken rules of the game you made up entirely is the solution for breaking the pattern: _I know we don't really talk about it but for honesty's sake I want to make it clear that when you do things like turn me around and put your tongue inside me before you take me from behind I am perfectly okay with it. I don't mind it at all. Just thought you should know._ Though perhaps you ought to be a little less candid than that—though truthful, it may understandably come off a tad insincere, since the only thing you'll _actually_ circumvent about these rules of not-speaking is the point.

Maybe you'll leave him a note, in the eventuality—in the _inevitability_ that you die for him: _You're stupid. I love you. I'm sorry._ That'll show him.

But that's the easy way out, and you've learned umpteen times that there aren't any shortcuts on the road to dawn. The sun comes up every day, but you still have to work for it if you want to see it, and you know better than to take the sun for granted. And maybe you're not perfect, but you spent a long time working on at least being _good_ , so you know that these are the kinds of things that stray you from the path, that delude and disillusion, that scapegoat the blame. 'Cuz when it comes down to it, you still know that you have to do everything in your power just to prepare for cherishing the things that matter. Doing so doesn't always mean jumping in front of the nearest bullet. In fact, in this case, it's about _not_. And okay. So maybe some of these emotions are a little darkness-adjacent: that's not insurmountable. You've mounted it before. Admittedly, the both of you got a little turned around this time, and now it's time to stop messing around and come back. It's okay, though. It's never too late. You'll lead the way.

It ends like it should have began.

Another extended assignment: he insisted on going with you, and no one bat an eye. What you know that they don't is that he is a liability, not because he can't take care of himself, but because _you_ can. Unfortunately, that's not the assignment. And this is not a place where you can afford distraction—and distraction he will be: more than usual he is reckless, and foolhardy, and hard-headed, and you know he only wheedled his way onto this ride to prove a point, just as well as you know that you'll be the one to pull him out from the end of it. _Divide and conquer_ , he said cheerily by way of persuasion, even though the both of you know it's the stupidest thing you've ever heard. And just like you expect, he ditches you the instant he gets an opportunity and disappears in another direction.

It's been years since you felt this level of anger, like you swallowed white lava, aimless, directionless. You wish that he would think straight when his pride was hurt almost as much as you wish it for yourself. You're mad how well he had the others convinced. You should have tried harder to get him to stay.

You guess it's a taste of your own medicine, though you'll argue that you should still get different dose—your motivation is not _just_ sheer mule-headedness, but actual experience on top of that. Tenacity will get you a whole lot of places but most of them are six feet under.

The creatures are stronger here, and they give even you a tough time—you always have to remind yourself that you can't underestimate them based on previous experience. You learned it the hard way, and too many times, from people who are stronger than you are. Rule number one, beyond all things, is don't let anything sneak up on you. You are absolutely livid that you did—it just hadn't started here.

You try to go about your duty but something is wrong, wrong, and you can't ignore it. You've been told that in scenarios like these you have to follow your heart, so without much diversion you end up precisely where you need to go.

He holds his own fairly well—when you find him on a wide plain on the edge of the world he's still firmly in the fight, but you know it's going to be trouble very soon, even with the two of you together. He blocks a blow from above and you can see where something has already torn his gauntlet, which means there are probably a lot more scuffs where that came from that he'll hide from you later. You tear down the path, leaping islet to islet over dark fissures in the ground that zigzag through formations of earth and sand, slaying creatures as you go. You call out the second you can reach him without shouting, and he notices you for the first time. You're still filthy mad, but you're pleasantly disarmed a notch when he throws you an unexpected grin—one you haven't seen in a long time. Great time for it.

You hop over dark water and into the fray and back to back the both of you make short work of the storm, though it doesn't let up. The thing about this place is that the better you are, the worse it gets, because there's nothing the heartless love more than a locus of power. They can do teamwork too. It's why you don't know why you're surprised when a crew of old friends come to call in the form of a writhing mass of darkness.

It curves around quicker than lightning, not that lightning magic was ever much good against it. You freeze. Through the immediate fear the only thing you can think is that you've already wasted too much precious time. This thing is old news. You know too well that your options are limited, and you made a fatal error coming out the gate. You should have known it'd end up being something this banal to do you in.

He turns to see what the hold up is, and you watch him take it all in at once.

"Hey," he says, with a note of desperation. "Snap out of it."

You have to buy time. The only thing you can think to do is throw him under—the sand is shallow enough here that it's not a far reach to the body of dark water below, to the same waves that crash up against the edges and create cracks between the land. A barrier will hold under it as long as you carve out enough space to keep it safe. Tenacity will get you a lot of places.

"What are you doing?" he says, hollow, as you back up into him and grab him by the wrist. You attempt an air spell to scatter the grit beneath your feet. It'll have to be good enough. " _What are you doing?_ " he shouts, and you half carry, half flip him into the ground to the sound of a magnificent splash. Bullseye.

There's probably not enough time left for you but you can try and earn some to give. Taking down at least a little bit of the tide is better than none at all, so guided by muscle memory you raise your blade and meet the surge.

It's like when you put your head underwater and the world goes silent but for the sound of a rushing current—it's instantly so black not even the magic you cast throws back any light. You stay calm. It's okay. You knew what you signed up for.

Suddenly the ground pulls itself out from underneath you—okay, so maybe you didn't know. This is an unexpected result. You flail for balance but thankfully it's not enough to keep upright; you're pulled miraculously into safety. It turns out he's finally dragged you down to his level after all, and by the ankle, no less.

Your barrier won't survive it much longer. It isn't meant to from the outside—suddenly you're enraged all over again. It wasn't supposed to be the _both_ of you trapped here in perdition—

He grabs you by the arm.

"Run," he says, but you're stuck, caught in the sand and the tornado and the tide. " _Run!_ "

He claws his nails into your shoulder and your synapses relapse and snap back into place. _Yeesh_ ; no need to tell you three times—you grasp for each other by the arms and hightail it out of there just like you did the last time you were both here, faster than then, faster than you've ever gone, and farther too.

An eon later momentum finally catches up to you, and one of you tips down and tumbles to the ground, taking the other one with you—doesn't matter who started it, because the result is the same. Exhaustion follows closely, which would spell the end, but it looks like you just may have averted fate one more time: the storm is nowhere to be seen. That doesn't mean you should stick around, but it does mean you get a chance to book it home and live another day.

You collect yourselves, and you reach into your pocket for the tracker that will lead you on the long path back to the nearest door to the light.

He hovers next to you, eyes wet. You think about joking that he should suck it up, but the quip is dead before departure. Something about his million yard stare tells you to cool it. He looks up at you with his face pulled down in a frown like you've never seen him wear before.

Suddenly he reaches up and slaps you, backhanded. Hard; you are literally and figuratively struck. You raise a hand to your face to stare at him with sheer incredulity—he's physically shaking. He snatches the tracker out of your hand and stomps forward, barely looking at it. Incredible. You didn't even piss him off this badly the first time you left. You try to start your reboot process a little quicker this time so you can follow, but you still spin your wheels for a second, muddy.

The only thing sluicing down the line is a litany of dubiously snappy retorts— _How about you save your own life next time, ungrateful idiot? Why don't you stick_ that _in your pipe and slap it_? Those you can tamp down and sharpen up for a slightly less wrong place and time, but you barely stop yourself from screaming at him that he's the reason you ended up in this mess in the first place.

The only thing that keeps it out of your mouth is that you're not sure that's entirely true.

When you finally arrive a couple of days have passed at home. Even by the dark world's measure it's enough time for you to compose yourself some, and more than enough for you to cool. You find it's much easier than you thought to remain impassive.

You walk side by side down the hallway, and you catch him holding onto his breath to regulate it like he always does when he's about to cry.

When you reach your door he stops. You cast him a look from the corner of your eye but otherwise ignore him when you push through, though he follows right behind. You continue to pretend as if he's not there, peeling your gloves off and pulling your shirt over your head so you'll remember to take care of the stains later. You start rummaging around in your pockets for your supplies.

He's had enough; he grabs you by the arm so you'll turn to look at him, but you pull away. He shouts in frustration and shoves you by the torso, and you finally turn to acknowledge him as he stares daggers through rivulets of silent tears. You know he doesn't need to be told that these are the cheapest shots he's ever taken. He shoves you again, and you stagger a bit, mostly because you didn't stand your ground in the first place. He barrels into you, and you give him what he wants and sit down hard on the floor. He drops down to follow, then climbs on top of you, digging his knees into your thighs and grabbing you by the face. When he kisses you it's desperate and dysrhythmic, wet and salty and messy, and you let him but you don't kiss back. You keep your eyes open and wrap an arm around him to hold him close, then you cup your hand at his cheek. With a small start he looks at you, and the instant he sees your face he looses a choked noise, one last restrained gasp. You use your thumb to wipe away the tear slated to join the visible tracks on his face, and with the back of your hand repeat the process on the other side before you reach down to hold up his chin with your index finger.

He collapses into a massive sob, limp-limbed and dead-weighted, and begins to cry violently and breathlessly onto your shoulder.

You scoop him up fully into your arms for a moment so you can cross your legs underneath, and indulge him when he scrabbles at your back to squeeze you in a tighter grip, like he's afraid you're going to deposit him with force onto the floor. You place him so he settles side saddle in your lap, then keep yourself as still and calm as possible. You feel his hummingbird heartbeat in your own chest, and try to insulate the shockwaves from full-body spasms of wracking sobs.

You know it's more to assuage yourself when you press your mouth to his brow. You think he might understand what you mean by it anyway. In fact, you're pretty sure he already knew.

"What," he starts, shaky—you hear him swallow through a gross wall of mucus and sheer despondence. He sniffs again, and interrupts himself with another helpless sob before he heaves out the rest of it. "I don't know what's gonna happen when the next thing comes."

"There's always gonna be a next thing," you say after a moment, barely able to hear yourself.

"I hate even _thinking_ about it. I won't _talk_ about it, I'm so scared it'll come true, I can't—" It spills out of him in a whisper. "I can't lose you. I can't, none of it matters without y—"

Your voice cracks like it's worn out from disuse.

"You have me. You've _always_ had me—you always will."

He takes another wheezing breath on your shoulder, and hot tears streak down your collarbone. You don't care to measure the time that passes before he responds.

"I'll stay this time, I wanna stay. Let me… Will you let me? Is that okay?"

He looks at you, pleading, still wet-eyed and red-nosed… guilty. Ashamed. Like he expects to be told " _no._ "

It's well past time you set the record straight.

"You never needed to ask," you confess. "For anything. I never need you to ask."

He shakes his head at first like he doesn't like that answer, overwhelmed—his face quickly devolves again, threatening tears. He breathes out a hiccup: a laugh of disbelief. Concession pulls across your face and shows itself as a weak smile. You watch him let out a bolstering little sigh, only halfway up his chest, then he shakes his head at you again, head cocked ever so slightly to the side. He reaches up to put your face in his hands and pull you forward, cautiously meeting your lips before closing his eyes, gently exploring the feeling of you together. Like it's your first kiss.

With that same delicate hesitation he pulls away to stare at you unblinkingly for a moment, and the small smile you held tight widens by an increment. Evidently satisfied, he disentangles himself from your lap and extends his hand to you before he can even stand up straight. You let him pull you up and tug you to bed, and you settle in and curl around one another in perfect arcs where all the while he takes care to keep a hold on your hand. You make no move to let go of it for him. You reach out at the same time to tangle your fingers together thoroughly, and they stay clasped together long after you both fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Some specifics on content warnings - tags include references to rough/possessive behavior exploring dynamics adjacent to D/s and s &m, which in this context includes acts of violence intended to cause harm in and outside of a sexual scenario.**
> 
> [title](https://youtu.be/KWAvNHf9IpY)


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